


Where the Gloom becomes Sound

by Kaamos (reckless_love)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angband, Black Metal, Blasphemy, Bottom Melkor, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry Tolkien, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mention of blood, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Painkillers, Philosophy, Porn With Plot, Runes, Slow Build, a sort of irony, angband black metal, angband metal, angbang, black metal inspired fic, male makeup kink, nichilism, philosophical porn, practice, romantic madness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2018-09-28 06:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10077653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reckless_love/pseuds/Kaamos
Summary: It's three years.And he doesn't know how to do.





	1. ᛜ or 'seed/beginning'

**Author's Note:**

> Since this idea has emerged in me, I've felt obsessed with it so...I really need to start to get this away from me. No fast update, be patient.  
> You will find, as quote for each chapter, two lines of some hypothetical lyrics: they’re invented by me.  
> It's heavily inspired by black❤metal (my life) but you can enjoy it even if it's not your music.  
> And sorry, as usual: English is not my mother tongue.

 

>   Blood summons blood  
>  and I’m summoning You 
> 
> **_Tol-in-Gaurhoth_**  

 

Even if three years has passed from the absurd event that has happened to him, he has not lost the habit of spending hours in his favourite shop. He cannot get on the stage in that condition, but he enjoys to play in public and, when he’s there, a little crowd of people surrounds him to listen to his solo guitar improvisations. In those moments he’s satisfied as flicker of joy fills his soul again, as in the past. But when he gets back to his grey and music-less life, he is not. He’s depressed in the worst way. 

Of course no one recognises him, now, with that full beard and the head totally shaved. He was envied for his so long and black hair, for his massive stage presence, for his double vocal technique that let him do what he wanted: deep and smooth to seduce, sharp and scratching to rape or plain and collected to rule.  
But when the music turned its back to him, he desired only to be forgotten; so the change in look was one forced option: and it worked in the past as well as it’s working now as no one could think that _that man_ is Melkor – Morgoth – Bauglir from Utumno, the famous one man solo band. 

In spite of that freak event - that cost him almost the whole earnings between psychiatrists and neurologists who, as answer, gave him a candid ‘We don’t know what’s happening inside you’ - three years of inner silence brought him a fervid activity as song writer and composer: more than two hundred songs are waiting to be recorded. 

“That’s your best shit, son”, commented his father, the world's best record producer and also owner of the ‘Ainur’ label. 

But he doesn’t hear the music.  
He, the great inventor of Black Metal, is not capable to hear the music anymore.  
Voices, noises, cries and whatever natural sounds are perceived better than in the past, but it seems there’s a shield in his mind for the music. His world, that used to be harmonized sounds, now is only silence. 

Stepping inside the music store, he nods to the guy working behind the cash register. 

“Hey friend”, the guy says, like every single time only to hear his answer, that punctually arrives: 

“We are not friends”, almost growled with disgust, walking to reach the zone with instruments. 

The huge TV in the middle of the store is set on a musical program, giving images of a concert, spaced out with some interview clips.  
And it’s ten seconds.  
He hears him. He hears his voice, that cries like a rainstorm and howls like the wind. He hears him playing the guitar: he hears the quick and infuriate riff as he sings 

“ _Blood summons Blood  
__And I’m summoning You_ ” 

Melkor is paralysed. The heart beats so fast that he’s worried to have a collapse. The music brings him two tears from his eyes that run down his cheeks. And they’re almost dried on his skin when the silence fills again his ears. 

Now only images are living in his mind. A young man with long, blond almost white hair, with a simple but effective face-painting and a painted inverted cross in the middle of his chest that seems to strip the flash from his ribcage.  
Melkor’s temples are pulsating, or, better to say, exploding in his skull. He trembles, his legs are weak, he breaths with difficulty, as if someone has punched him in the stomach. 

“Who are they?”, he asks shocked to the guy. 

“Whaat??”, says the guy, Maglor, “Friend, you are here every fucking day and you ask who they are?!”, as he speaks, the guy takes a LP out from the back of the bench to give it to him. 

Tol-in-Gaurhoth, says the front cover in which there’s the same guy he has just heard with a wood and a fortress painted behind him.  
Melkor pays the LP. 

“But you don’t play today?”, asks Maglor, having no answer back as the strange man leaves the store. 

Perhaps the magic may happen again at home.  
Perhaps. 


	2. ᚦ or 'chaos'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't belive I'm posting this. Sorry.

>   Disharmony and poisonous venom  
>  in the years of brightness  
>  until my hateful triumph 
> 
> **_Utumno_ **

  

Probably the rancour he’s feeling as he’s sitting in the living room of his small and messy apartment is not due to the absence of music, rather towards himself, as he truly believed that something might happen. And now - after seventy-three minutes of pure stillness and four beers - the sound of the raw stylus, that once he loved, is making him nervous. The needle and his fingers tapering, one after the other, the side of the glass bottle are the only sounds in the air. 

The softness of the late afternoon light, in and around the window, seeps in and the warmth embraces him, comforting nothing but surrounding everything; the smoke from the cigarette dances like hypnotic spirals in the ray of light and only the alcoholic level in his blood has the power to calm and soothe his mind by altering levels of neurotransmitters. Half of his second vodka glass is gone when he decides to search him on that famous video channel: music, video, music but no interview.  
No, actually only one. 

“Thank you for taking time even though you had so much to do and for accepting our interview. You don’t give interviews so easily” 

“Well, I’m a musician, not a talker”, without the face-painting he’s angelic: his face is clean with his broad forehead, pointed narrow chin and high cheekbones. 

“One question just to heat the situation: are you really vegetarian?” 

“Oh”, he’s surprised, “I don’t know how you got this but, yes, it’s true” 

“That’s interesting: the devil is vegetarian! A fun devil?”, laughs the speaker. 

The young singer is perplexed. “I respect animals, so I prefer to eat people instead. Human beings have escaped the natural role for a very long time now, turning into mad cells” 

“Ready for action, as I see. Is it okay if I call you Sauron?” 

“As you wish”, he replies, “after all Sauron is a part of me”. He seems relaxed but his hand fumbling with the full glass of beer shows that he’s not at the best of his feeling comfortable. 

“Are you talking about your identity crisis?” 

“Oh, that's one interesting way of reading it”, Sauron laughs lightly, “Or a kind way to say I’m mad” 

“So, let’s talk about your characters or, as you said, all the parts of you” 

“Basically I’m developing my project, that is a tetralogy. I live my music like one anthropology of the liberty - or epiphany if you like best the religious term - telling a story and using characters for every stage level”. 

The young singer brushes a blond loose strand of hair behind his ear before going ahead: “In the beginning there’s Sauron, who is the shaking from the dream”, a pensive break, “or nightmare or, even better, the awakening from a fable that totally is a deplorable fabrication; this is what Sauron, _the Lieutenant of Evil_ , represents: the awakening of the mental faculties slumbered in lies”.

Sauron grabs at the beer before him and he takes a sip; then he goes on: “The second level of the conscious is the reaction with the figure of Zigûr, _the High Priest_ , who’s the searching of knowledge and power by diving into an inverted religion, and this is a natural step I think: after seeing the truth, the human naturally turns himself into the very root of his soul: a more primitive and religious dimension. But, at the end, even it shows how much it’s trapped in the bad conscious, falling again in what it tries to escape: a reverse canon brings nothing because it affirms what it would deny”. 

The blond man takes another sip from the beer, and so does Melkor with the bottle of his sixth beer. 

“For that we need the third stage”, Sauron explains, after a little while, “that is a merciless vision of the betrayal: betrayed by God, betrayed by nature and reason, betrayed by the human essence itself, Annatar, _the Giver of Gifts_ , is pure punishment, a planned chaos and a categorised violence. Probably the most cruel and uneasy to accept moment that exalt the supreme contradiction: the gift is the end of everything”. 

The interviewer is enraptured by that young and skinny man. He doesn’t speak for several seconds, lost in the beauty of his hooded, sparkling eyes: “You-you talked about tetralogy”, stutters eventually the man, after some awkward moments of silence, “what about the last stage?” 

“Well”, Sauron puts on the table the half empty glass of beer, “I’m still working on it and I don’t have desire to anticipate nothing except for this”, Sauron clears his throat before speaking again with his fruity and smoky voice. The interviewer is hanging on his every word and he props his chin in the palm of his right hand, unwilling to lose any concept from that brilliant mind. And so does Melkor, with a cigarette firmly clasped between his lips. 

“It will be the eschatology: to set free the mind from that chain, my last and conclusive character, _the Dark Lord_ , has to set free the man from humanity and become himself God”. 

“And what happens after?” 

“Let’s see”, Sauron smiles and takes again the glass in the hand. 

“From your personal point of view - as you mastermind the group”, the interviewer continues, “what is the primary idea that fuels Tol-in-Gaurhoth’s music?”

The singer lowers his eyes to his glass of beer and smiles very slightly. “Evil”, he answers in a breath as he lifts his face to meet the interviewer’s gaze once more.

“Spooky”, the man comments. Only Melkor catches his irony.

“Ok, the last question for you, Sauron. What about the music that you listen to: what kind of genre you like, which sound influences you mostly?” 

“Well, I would not talk about genres but…prosaically for me there are two kinds of music: music as one experience that unalterably changes a person and music that doesn’t - which is incidentally not music but only noise, in my opinion. Needless to say Morgoth and his mighty Utumno had a huge impact on me as a musician and as a man and definitely he sparked my fascination for Black Metal and he opened my eyes in the early days. Utumno made a huge impact on myself: I was very young and he was the first Black Metal band ever, not only the one I ever got into. Ever since I’ve been a big fan and his works have influenced me to do what I do today. Perhaps you may find my declaration presumptuous but I think I’m continuing his work, following the steps he marked for first” 

“You’re a musician and it’s three years that Morgoth has disappeared from the scene… Have you ever met him? Do you had any kind of contact with him?” 

“In truth no one knows what happened to him and, no, I’ve never met him” 

“Do you have any kind of clue about that fact?” 

“There are many rumours but I do not listen to rumours. Talking about music again, in my last work there’s a…well, it’s not a cover but it’s a tribute to him through one of my favourite piece he wrote: I’ve used two lines taken from one of his songs as bridge for my song. Let’s say that’s a message”. 

And let’s say that Melkor got it.  
For that reason he crosses the narrow corridor to reach the bathroom. He shaves to find a bit more of himself in that pale image reflexed in the mirror. Hair will grow back: he will let it grow out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading ❤


	3. ᚢ or 'instinct'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > Hippy/Hippie Maglor© by the lovely DraugFaeg who read the first chapter and coined that nice word-image for him that suits *perfectly*! Thank you!!♥
> 
> Can't believe I'm posting this chapter.
> 
> Here Morgoth from Utumno by [Ranth Art](https://ranth-art.tumblr.com/)  
>   
> Thank you Sweetie ♥♥♥

 

>  We are each a human each a god  
>  The fear of this enchains  
>  To the realm of the Death
> 
> **_Tol-in-Gaurhoth_ **

 

*** _One month and half later_

 

“Look, I don’t know how you got that idea”, his fruity and smoky voice is like a faraway fluctuating whisper, “but I think you really are out of your mind”.

Melkor can’t open his eyes properly without feeling very dizzy and very nauseous; to be honest, it still aches whenever he takes a breath: the pain inside the nose - from the tip to his forehead - and the fact of being unbalanced even if he’s lying, make him feel like a floating stick in the middle of a vast sea. Moreover, he can bet on it: that constant buzz in his ears is simply an auditory hallucination.

Except for the pain, he would compare that experience to be tripping his fucking brain. He’s not, however: it’s only the consequence of the most powerful punch in the face he ever had; he has had quite a few lately but that one beats them all.

“I’ve an ice pack in the locker room”, the voice speaks again, “just be sure to stay here, please”, and mocks before leaving the room.

Melkor tries to open one eye. The light in the room is not that strong but disturbs him immensely. “Another towel”, he finds the strength to cry eventually, feeling the one he’s using start dripping from the bottom, full of his own blood.

Fortunately, the more he tries to think back, the more it all starts to unravel.  
He got to go backstage just some minutes before the Tol-in-Gaurhoth’s gig was over, waiting unnoticed for the right moment to meet him; he planned everything to the last detail that time, so he managed to approach the young vocalist while he was getting off the stage alone. Melkor attended two concerts and noticed that Sauron used to leave the show before the last song was over.  It had to be a kind of heavy and long beat riff, as people around him always started to headbang.  
It all happened in a second: Melkor grabbed him by his arms and

“ _Blood summons blood, Sauron_ ” - he minded to scream over the noise of the gig before biting him on his bottom lip harshly.

What passed off consequently was a bunch of different images all mixed together, and then the pain, when a man slightly shorter than him with a long beard and, strangely, no theatrical corpse-paint, threw a punch in his face. He fell unconscious but he cannot say how long he was in that state. When he woke up, he was lying on that couch, an ethereal figure glancing at him with a pale and worried face: a mirage, an optical illusion caused by the blow. He was quite sure about that until he focused on the mirage’s bottom lip: swollen and cracked in the point he bit him. That was not a creature of heaven or hell and Melkor was not dead: the man before him was an earthly _Sauron_.

“Just tell me that you’re not going to die here on my couch”, the younger man says, handing him the blue ice package with a new clean towel, “tomorrow I have to work and it would be a remarkable hassle to have a corpse in my living room”.

In a normal circumstance, Melkor would laugh loudly, enjoying a lot that kind of gallows humour.  
“Fuck off”, he replies angrily, tossing the dirty towel in the ‘just-in-case’ plastic basin near him on the floor.

“You sure I can’t take you to the hospital?”

“No”, Melkor growls, “no hospital”

“You should undergo x-ray or CAT scan”

“It’s not broken”

“If the nose is fractured or simply displaced, resetting the nasal bone fracture would be important rather than waiting for it to heal crooked”

“It’s already healed crooked”

“Set in your ways”, mocks Mairon.

“No hospital”, Melkor growls again.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t reconsider, as alternative, the mental hospital?”

“Ha, nice”, Melkor comments, feeling a bit better, the ice starting to work on pain and dizziness.

“By the way how is your lip?”, Melkor adds after a long moment of silence.

“Was it necessary?”, the guy asks, touching lightly his bottom lip, asking himself how to justify his aspect at work if someone snoops around, “No, _Morgoth_ , you didn’t need to do that”

“But I got your full attention”

“You’d have had it just by introducing yourself!”, the guy is - clearly and understandably - pissed off.

“Bullshits!”, Melkor growls, a copious gush of blood explodes from his nose as he gets angry, “You’re unapproachable: it’s the third time I try to connect with you and each time someone…pushed me away”

“It-it was you the last two time, also?”, the blonde guy is a bit shocked.

“Of course it was me, _Sauron_ ”

“You are a fool”, Mairon states, “‘someone pushed you away’ it’s an odd way to say that ‘someone beat you up’! You are _Morgoth_ and…your father is a producer! You could’ve had a free pass for the backstage just asking for it. Or even my personal contact through a simple call from daddy”.

Yet Melkor didn’t think of that: he’s so used to going everything alone, he doesn’t know any other way.  
  
It happened a couple of days after he saw the interview that the hippy guy from the music shop showed him the playbill of some upcoming Tol-in-Gaurhoth concerts arranged by the most famous underground club in the city.

“Hey friend! A new look today! Yeah, suits you!”, Maglor commented Melkor’s aspect as he stepped inside the store.  
In truth, he was going to ignore him without replying, as usual- if only the guy didn’t draw his attention: “I’ve been waiting for you, look!”, he pressed, “Freshly squeezed! Your fave group is going to play at ‘the Door of Night’ in two weeks!”, the black haired guy looked so proud of himself with his blue-violet sparkling eyes.  
Melkor approached the central counter, glancing at him gloweringly but less than the normal: it was the second time he helped him considerably, after all. And so, Maglor handed him the poster to look over: “You get to go? It will be a massive spectacle, quite sure about it: they call them ‘The Wolves’ and they say they’re a killing machine when they take the stage!”. Melkor didn’t reply and didn’t play that day in the shop but he memorised the dates.

The fact was that, after watching the interview, Melkor felt an unnatural yet instinctive need of him…to speak with him; well, not even to speak but _to meet him_ : there has to be a reason if he heard his voice singing - his and only his voice in three years of silence. Therefore, he impulsively decided to find him somewhere doing whatever it took and those three dates were the perfect opportunity.

The first time, the first concert, he tried to get in the local by the back door; thanks to his past experience in that place, when the club’s name was ‘Helvete’, he perfectly recalls how the door connects the bands’ reserved parking zone with the backstage to ease the instruments moving. Usually, during performs fans used that trick to sneak backstage by convincing the security guards they belonged to crew: it worked many time so why not with him? A little group of people were smoking and drinking there before the show that night, crew and perhaps some members of the band judging by the makeup, but no one with blonde long hair. Probably he would had gotten into the dressing room if only five men from security - alerted by the crew itself - didn’t meddle. He was Morgoth and he never had so many guards, not even after the assault he was victim of, when that psychopathic girl, Ungoliant - who used to play as guitarist for him a couple of times, threatened him with a syringe as they fucked. What happened in that world in only three years of absence?  
‘Dude, you can’t be here, man’, ordered one of them. ‘Oh, really?’, replied Melkor defiantly, ‘Why not?’. And that was pretty enough: ‘Want trouble, you found it!’. Melkor defended himself with honour and he got nothing broken (thing that one of the guard could not say) but the fight unfairly was one-sided and he eventually got the worst of it.

For the second gig, a few days apart from the first one - Melkor decided to attend it like a mere mortal; even if he couldn’t hear anything, he was totally enraptured by Sauron from the very beginning: he presented himself on the stage with his body completely cloaked in a black mantle before getting undress. He’d have done anything to listen to him as he was singing slowly yet penetratingly, in an atmosphere that seemed poignant, almost sacral. Then his entire wrath flowed freely, singing, probably screaming and growling, sometimes speaking between one song and another, sometimes engaging the crowd head-banging or moving on the stage turning his thin body to the bassist, rocking out with the drummer, sharing the spotlight during the fastest guitar’s riffs with the fist guitar player.  
Sauron learnt well the lesson; Melkor could even see himself of the glorious days in him, drawing the people’s attention and relaying his music message to the delirious audience. No matter how good the guitarist is at shredding, how crazily the bassist moves his long hair, no matter how quickly the drummer works, Sauron is the centrepiece of the spectacle, the minister of the ritual, not so tall but full of fury of a gathering storm.  
In the moment of maximum excitement, Melkor grabbed at his wrist as Sauron was singing horns up at the edge of the stage for there were no crush barriers between people and the stage itself. They looked in each other’s eyes for a moment that seemed eternal: Melkor was sure about the fact that he would have recognised him but, no, he didn’t, so the security blocked him immediately: they needed four men to get his ass kicked and to chuck him out of the club.  
The thrill he felt during the gig aroused some dozy emotions totally forgotten: the smell of sticky makeup on the face, the sensation of the leather trousers on the bare skin, hair gotten stuck in spikes while head-banging, the heat of the spotlights into the already torrid air, the sweat, the taste of a raw fuck, a bad hangover the next day with another concert in another club in another city.

“I did it in the old way”, Melkor justifies himself.

“In the old way?”, Mairon repeats, crossing the arms across the chest, “Ok, it’s clear: you’re simply a masochist”, he smirks, “ Yes, you’re glutton for punishment…you enjoy getting beat down”.

“You should hire your bassist as your personal bodyguard: not even the four men from security destroyed me as he did”

Mairon laughs lightly. “Carcharoth is 1 meter and 96 of strong muscles and he’s freakishly protective of me, in his own weird way”

“Kind of got me off guard, simply”

Looking at him, Mairon could believe easily his words: _Morgoth_ , visibly taller than two meters with his impressive physique presence, doesn’t look like a pacifist.  
Yes, he’s _Morgoth_. Due to the confusion caused by what happened after the gig, Mairon didn’t stop to think about the fact that _that man_ before him is _him_ , _Morgoth_ from _Utumno_.  
For that reason, he didn’t call the police but decided to take him back to his place. He didn’t recognised him immediately in the gloom of a dirty backstage - moreover without his beautiful long hair - but he did eventually: how could he not know the man who haunted his nights with wet dreams when he was a teenager? A little smile paints his aching lips thinking about the only one picture he’s still childishly cherishing somewhere in his bedroom: Morgoth without face-painting, a rarity, to not say impossibility, to see him without makeup; Mairon can still remember without any kind of shame when he masturbated to him.  
People considered his long black hair as the most attractive aspect in him and considerably it gave him a captivating appearance, but, now, Mairon can see clearly how his eyes - so remarkable and magnetic - enrapture totally: a pale blue iris emphasised by a smudged black line of pencil in the whole lid. Together with his strong cheekbones and full lips, he looks so wild, tempting and extraordinary that Mairon could not describe the impression he made: he could fall on his knees immediately, burying his self-respect in the most remote corner of his lust.

It happened almost simultaneously: Tol-in-Gaurhoth became famous in the Black Metal’s underground some months after Morgoth’s mysterious disappearance: no press conference or text message from the label, not even two lines on a newspaper to deny a sudden death. Irony of the fate, Mairon thought: the BM’s inventor disappeared just when he could have gotten in touch with him.  
Yet Mairon searched for _Morgoth_ for the last three years; Melkor never really had an official band for he played all instruments by himself in recording studio, deciding the influences and the sound of his music in complete freedom: _Morgoth_ was Utumno and Utumno was _Morgoth_. However, Mairon managed to talk with the live members who used to play with him time by time but no one knew what happened. ‘Probably he’s dead’, they said, ‘you know when you live too much neurosis’, or ‘all that awareness, well…sooner or later, you want to kill yourself’. Nevertheless, Mairon never believed those rumours.  
Also Mairon searched for him in some clubs where he saw him listening to different styles of music, mostly blues and jazz - or emerging bands in the black metal ambient, twice or three times: no one but Mairon noticed him, apparently. Alternatively, and more likely, no one dared to bother him, as his presence was majestic and startling at once. Mairon himself at that time was too young and too discreet to engage him in a conversation about music – Morgoth’s music, Mairon’s world - or to ask for a signature on his favourite album. And he regretted it heavily after Melkor went missing.  
Then, a couple of months before, he tried to ‘ _summon_ ’ him through his own words by his song, like a spell: if he was still alive, he _had to listen to him_.  
Finally, with that last ditch effort to get him back, _Morgoth_ appeared like one of those infernal demons they use to sing in their songs.

“Your jealous boyfriend?”, Melkor asks turning the ice pack on the unused side, just to take the piss out of him more than anything else.

“My friend since many years, not enough?”, Mairon replies drily, handing him another clean towel; then, he leans over him to check the situation, lifting gently the towel’s corner: “The bleeding’s stopping”, he adds smiling, as eyes meet eyes.

“Thanks”, Melkor murmurs for the first time that night, taking a closer look at the blonde man: beautiful eyes, his pale skin, his delicate, pointy features. And Melkor couldn’t bear to take his eyes from him: inadvertently he gets lightly closer to observe transfixedly those eyes of a solid amber colour with a strong golden and coppery tint.  
Mairon smiles as he sits next to him on the sofa: his eyes always do that to everyone.

“It was about one year ago after a gig in the backstage, more or less a replay of what happened tonight”, Mairon starts telling, “one guy assaulted me with a broken bottle of beer”, as he traces his fingers over the white scar ripping the neck side by side - barely visible on his pale skin - and follows it slowly, “he was literary obsessed with me but I didn’t take it seriously from the beginning: I just thought he was a fan devoted to music. As a result, it turned out that he was psychotic enough to kill me: I’m alive and without any kind of serious damage, except for this unesthetic scar - only thanks to Carcharoth who disarmed and immobilized him. So don’t blame him for defending me”.

“It’s hard to recognise the signal, when admiration turns into madness”, says Melkor pensive, after a while, “it happened to me also, some years ago”

“I think I remember the story: that girl with the syringe”

“I was young”, speaks Melkor nostalgically, “a young god…aroused, drunk, reckless…and she was totally fucked up”

Mairon reads in his eyes more of the bliss mixed with rage and suffering that resulted from his words.  
“It doesn’t look like a dangerous job, right?”, jokes he eventually, choosing to drop any question about him for the time being.

“Mm”, nods Melkor, smiling lightly. “Now I see why you leave the stage before the last song is over”, utters Melkor, “I didn’t think about your security”

“Oh, you noticed it”, says Mairon in surprise, “I suppose I have to change strategy starting from now”

“Yes, you should”, remarks Melkor, “and you should pressure the agency to fire the security man on duty: I think I saw him with a girl, not exactly committed to his job”

“Incredible”, says Mairon, noticeably bothered.

“I’d like a glass of something”

“Sure”, says Mairon, “actually you should drink plenty of fluids”

“At least a good news”

“Yes, extra fluids help keep mucus thin and draining”, leaving the sofa where he’s sitting next to Melkor, “water? Juice?”

“I need something strong”

“Maybe I have one beer in the fridge but I’m not sure”

“I said strong, you know - spirits: vodka, whiskey-”

“Sorry, no hard alcoholics here”

“The fuck?”, Melkor glances at him halfway between curiously and darkly.

“I don’t like spirits and I drink beer barely”, Mairon explains, “Anyway, in your condition it’s not a great idea to drink hard alcohol”.

“Unholy Void”, Melkor looks miserably lost, “could you tell me your name? Or I have to call you Sauron all the time?”

“Mairon”

“Well, _Mairon_ , give me that fucking beer”

“Sorry, I think I missed the last part”

Melkor looks at him. Not really in the right mood of arguing and really in need of alcohol, he grumbles a mumbled ‘Please’.

Satisfied Mairon stands and, taking with him the plastic pail with the two dirty towels, walks towards the laundry room and, then, to the kitchen.

Placing the beer on the low coffee table in the living room, Mairon darkly glances at the cigarette packet and lighter Melkor is pulling out the pocket of his long leather trench.

“First: not in my living room, not in my home”, Mairon says, “Second: do not smoke. Smoking slows healing because it decreases blood supply and delays tissue repair…even children know it”

“Ha”, comments Melkor defiantly, not really giving a fuck about his rules, cigarette between the lips and a drag already traveling towards his lungs with an uncontrollable dose of pleasure.

Mairon counts until three; when the third drag is taken, he towers him and takes the cigarette away from his hand, just to put it out into the glass of water. Melkor doesn’t comment as they stare at each other for some seconds of stillness; Melkor’s expression is motionless and hard as he gazes up at him with those unreadable eyes. Now it could be everything swirling into him: the feeling of an irrepressible pulsion to fuck him. Or fight him, equally. Not exactly sure about which one is stronger.

Despite all the oozing ‘couldn’t-care-less’ attitude that Melkor reeks of, “You can stay here tonight” Mairon states, stopping for a second: was really him to speak those words?  
Well, now they are not exactly friends - not even remotely acquaintances to be honest – and, in Mairon’s mind, there’s a level of comfort – or rather tolerance – that one has to reach with a person before sharing the same space, before sleeping in the same ambient, that is incidentally his home: for sure they are not at that point. And something about it excites Mairon in an unlikely way.

“I’m going to sleep”, he quickly adds, “tomorrow I have four hours lesson and two office hours so I wake up early and it’s 2 in the morning. I just need to pen the sofa bed and you can rest here”

Melkor is still too heavily dizzy to say or think anything reasonable, or to notice the fact in itself: he approves nodding, “Tomorrow we speak”, he says.

“Do not apply ice for longer than twenty minutes at a time, and do not fall asleep with the ice on your skin. Here some painkillers: tomorrow you I’ll start to get headaches or perhaps slight migraines by the eyes and above. Use this one, do not take non-steroidal if you have it with you - and I bet you have it: they prolongs the clotting time of blood and more nose or facial bleeding may occur”

“Are you a fucking doctor?”

Mairon pretends not to see Melkor’s repulsed expression or to hear the question: “Try to keep your head elevated, even while you’re sleeping: this will help reduce swelling. I get two more pillows. Tomorrow, when you wake up, a long steamy shower could help a lot with the nose. And don’t smoke”

“A torture”, Melkor murmurs discouraged, as the man leaves again the living room.

“The bathroom is the last door in the corridor and kitchen is at your disposal”, Mairon comes back throwing him the pillows he promised and a heavy duvet, “Please, call me only in case of death”.

Then he walks toward his bedroom, and, closing the door behind him, says to himself that if it’s all a dream, he doesn’t want to wake up at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, with your headphones....image Sauron aka the terrible Zigûr opening the concerts like [Attila Csihar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rHXUGfR96gk) with his gregorian chant.  
> Ah ♥ really I image one human sacrifices session in Númenor like [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Yw4yfeOhv4).
> 
> Again, thank you [Ranth Art](https://ranth-art.tumblr.com/)♥♥♥
> 
> My Morgoth 'black metal version' is physically inspired by the extremely hot [King ov Hell](https://68.media.tumblr.com/dac11cdac47b334e18cc03c7d6c44081/tumblr_n1yvsy11vD1rfqit3o1_500.jpg)


	4. ᚺ or 'wrath of nature within the unconscious'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is tradition, I can´t believe I´m posting a new chapter.  
> Here my Mairon by [RanthArt](https://ranth-art.tumblr.com)
> 
>   
> He looks like an angel, doesn´t he? Love him♥  
> Here the link to the [digital draw](https://78.media.tumblr.com/c5f29283ac865ba643da1997f39f0a8d/tumblr_messaging_ou86q6Uv3A1v2fsea_1280.png) , but I´m in love with the traditional one, can´t help it.  
> Mind the subliminal word in the text ---> Thanks [J](https://jdgr.deviantart.com/), my♥friend, for your gift (still causing me wet dreams).

 

> And mayhem rules and order lost  
>  There where the light was scorched  
>  There where the light was raped  
>  by Darkness 
> 
> _**Utumno** _

Mairon steps into his apartment and sighs at the overall view. 

The hours have passed even more flat than the normal on curiosity to go home to speak with him, but, now, that sight discourages him a lot. Moreover, the smell of cigarettes, even though light and subtle, is unmistakable. 

The kitchen, clean and tidy in the morning, has become a sort of battleground with three or four full coffee filters lying near the sink, brew spilled on the white stove and even on the floor (how the hell he managed to spill it is a mystery). To not talk about the living room zone: some empty bottles of beers next to the painkiller pills package on the low table, clothes lying around and one blood stained hand towel on the carpet.  
He hates to think of what could be the bathroom. 

There’s no sound in the apartment; the only proofs that Melkor is still there are the knee-high military boots near the door, two cases of beer plus four bottles of alcoholics at the inner entrance.  
To find his guest, Mairon has to reach the bedroom where he’s sleeping in the middle of  _his_  bed, totally plunged into darkness.  
Leaning over against the door jamb, Mairon turns the light on with no mercy. 

“Mmm”, protests Melkor, naked, barely covered by  _his_  bath sheet.  
Yes, that one is Mairon’s personal and luxurious bath sheet. 

A quick preview of his right side shows a huge dragon tattoo covering his skin, unravelling and twisting from the rib cage to the buttock.

“Glad to see you alive”, says Mairon loudly, “even if in  _my_  bed and with  _my_ [towel](https://pre00.deviantart.net/e1cd/th/pre/i/2017/279/c/b/towel_by_jdgr_dbf2qdi_by_jdgr-dbpp46a.jpg)”, he adds, having doubts about Melkor’s concept of hygiene. 

Lazily and sleepily, Melkor turns his head to give a look at him; it takes some moments until the eyes adjust to light, seeing how he’s elegant in a dark grey suit, serious with those black heavy top frames eyeglasses and perfect with his loose hair pulled back with a nice messy effect: except for the cut lip and his sexual desirability, he doesn’t even look like the same person of the previous night.  
Turning himself completely, leaving nothing to Mairon’s imagination for a while before covering up his private part with a strip of sheet (they cannot have a real talk in that condition, he thinks), Melkor accidentally kicks with the leg a pile of Mairon’s clean clothes, that falls scattering black t-shirts, jeans and other garments from the bed to the floor. 

One step closer to strangle him badly, Mairon closes his eyes and breaths out deeply with a sound that almost recalls a wolf growling, holding on to his valid reason to put up with all that with all his spiritual strength. 

Melkor studies him once more, just letting himself have that one shining moment where the younger man is one step away from killing him: this could be his new source of delight. 

“Advocate?”, Melkor asks eventually. 

Melkor’s sleepy voice - the sexiest thing Mairon has ever heard in his whole life - has the power to soothe his irritated mind. He shakes his head and chuckles. 

“Financier” 

“This deeply offends me”, Mairon replies with a nice pout on his face, crossing his arms, “even if it would be extremely funny to play with money that doesn’t exist” 

“Fawning sycophant”, Melkor scoffs, “that’s sure” 

“Depending on how you look at the world” 

“Let’s not make it as fucking relativism, okay?”, he snarls, in a very bad way, “There’s nothing relative in this fucking world”. 

Mairon’s smirk turns into a sincere smile: he doesn’t know how the whole thing will end, but for sure he’s going to enjoy the hell out of it. 

“Right, then”, Mairon says, as he recollects his clothes from the floor and arranges them on the drawer, “in any case, I prefer ‘cure to ignorance’ but I’ve to admit that ‘cruel sadist’ is my favourite one”, he proudly adds. 

“What time is it?”, Melkor intercuts it, as he doesn’t really give a damn about his job, after all. 

“It’s almost five” 

“I need another pill”, Melkor says placing the hand on his forehead, “the pain is killing me again” 

“Did you eat?” 

“Waiting for you” 

“Such an honour”, Mairon comments, lifting his eyebrow, “in two hours we eat, then you take the pill” 

“There’s nothing in the fridge” 

“Actually it’s full” 

“Nothing eatable inside” 

“Feel free to go”, Mairon says with deep voice, but calm, almost monotone, “if you’re not okay with that”. 

However, it’s Mairon who leaves the room along with more comfortable clothes to take a quick shower before preparing dinner. 

* 

It’s the smell of the cooking filling the apartment that makes Melkor get out of the bed about forty minutes later, dress with his jeans and t-shirt and walk toward the kitchen with a cigarette between the lips.  
Mairon not even speaks: he points at the door balcony in the living room with the knife he’s holding in hand. 

“You know,  _little Mairon_ ”, towering him from behind, considerably taller than him, “you’re the biggest pain in the ass on the fucking planet”, he growls but eventually obeys, not before making some huge drags, just to fill the air with smoke - just to piss him off a bit more - while reaching the fridge to take a beer out of it. 

Mairon follows him with his eyes outside the glass door and onto the balcony. Tilting his head on the side, he smiles slightly at the view of him as he stands giving him his strong back, smoking the cigarette slowly and drinking beer. A part of him wants to approach him just to join him and share the view from the railing. Another part only wishes that the current moment lasts forever, with his presence – even if unknown - there with him. 

* 

“As I see”, Mairon says as Melkor comes back from the balcony, “you brought here all your possessions”, commenting the alcoholic stockpile. 

“I call it self-medication” 

“Four cases of beer?”, Mairon counted the bottles at the bottom shelf of the fridge, “It’s not humanly possible to drink so much of beer in a night!” 

“Is it a challenge? You’ve already lost it”, replies Melkor, “Ok, listen”, he changes tones mellowing it, “I need to stay here…a couple of days” 

“Oh, please, tell me that’s not about police, drugs or-” 

“Don’t say crap”, snarls Melkor, “it’s a long serious story”. Perhaps it works as a kind of liberating to tell someone what’s happening inside him. 

“I’d be glad to know all the details of it” 

“The pill before”, he says, placing the cold of the bottle against nose bridge and forehead. 

“Wait, wait”, realises Mairon, “you went out in this condition to buy beers?” 

“And to take clothes from my apartment: I felt good on pill effect” 

“Irresponsible”, begins Mairon visibly upset, stirring some vegetables in a pan with a quick but firm movement of his wrist, “I tell you it now”, he adds a dark sauce that, evaporating instantaneously with more wrist rapid motions, gives off a delicious aroma, “if you get drunk in my home, I kick you out from here as you are: no help from me you’ll get”. 

“I’ll get drunk only to see the show:  _little Mairon_  kicking me out”, bursts out laughing Melkor. 

“I’ll call for help”, replies Mairon, “your old friend Borosaith is waiting for another chance to beat you up” 

“Who?” 

“My bassist,  _Carcharoth_ ” 

“Don’t tease me”, Melkor says but not really meaning it: another fight is clearly what he need not at the actual moment.  
Despite the sharp headache still torturing him, Melkor’s mesmerised by his cooking skills and his mouth’s heavily watering, for the smell of that mix is incredible: in all likelihood, he has never eaten anything with that kind of ‘flavorgasmic’ effect.  
Well, nothing on this world will trouble his dinner, less than all a stupid migraine; thus, he opens one bottle of red wine and fills two glasses. He offers one of them to Mairon, who kindly declines. 

“Drink”, Melkor threats, “c’mon, only one glass” 

Mairon grasps at it unceremoniously, distinctly the glasses cling one against the other and Melkor empties the entire glass down his throat in a single gulp, together with the tablet.  
In less than twenty minutes, Melkor’s pain is almost solved and a rich dish of short pasta with vegetables is served at the kitchen’s table. 

“Orgasmic”, Melkor utters in awe, taking the second mouthful, without lifting his eyes from the dish before him. 

“Easy and quick”, explains Mairon. 

“Just tell me I can get seconds” 

“Sure”, Mairon smiles, “there’s a half portion left in the pan, I think” 

“Great” 

“You know what?”, starts to say Mairon, “The same areas of the brain affected by opioids are affected by food, sex and… _music_ ” 

“Life’s pleasures: it didn’t take a fucking doctor to know it” 

“I’m not a doctor” 

“Pharmacist…chemist” 

“A-ah”, Mairon shakes his head: he’s really getting into that game. 

“Fuck off”, Melkor keeps eating hearty. 

“But more interesting is the fact that most of the people find great pleasure in sad songs”, Mairon goes on.

“A pathetic own self-loathing?” 

“It’s all about hormones”, he explains, “when we hear sad songs, the brain releases the prolactin” 

“It doesn’t ring a bell” 

“Oh, you’re right”, explains Mairon, “it’s the same neurochemical that a mother releases when nursing a child. In fact, and just to give you an example, during breastfeeding, prolactin is found in both mother and child” 

Melkor gulps the mouthful: “Gynaecologist?” 

“No”, he says before taking another forkful. 

“Obstetrician” 

“With a suit?! It’s easier than you think” 

“Primary school teacher”, jokes Melkor. 

“Getting warmer!”, exclaims Mairon very surprised, “You give up?” 

“Never. Just give me time”, Melkor stands to full the dish again, “Go on with the hormones stuff, it’s getting interesting” 

“Uhm, right”, Mairon continues, “prolactin works like a reassuring and comforting substance: when we’re feeling sad and misunderstood, that chemical is released by our brain to convince ourselves that we’re not alone. Basically, it’s a scam” 

“That’s really pathetic” 

Mairon nods as he chews, “In such ways…well, you know, humans are pathetic sometimes. In closing, through sad songs we feel chemically comforted” 

“That’s why you play black metal?”, scoffs Melkor, pouring some more wine in their glasses, “You feel alone and misunderstood?” 

“Alone?”, Mairon looks at him with his eyebrows rise questioningly, “Actually, I’ve not had one minute to myself since about three years so…I would say it’s not my case at all. And misunderstood? I don’t give a fuck about being understandable - and you should feel it a lot” 

Melkor gives a little nod of understanding before lifting his gaze from the dish. For a moment they are in silence, just contemplating the deep of each other’s eyes. Melkor eventually looks away, afraid of what he could find in Mairon’s depth. All of a sudden, it seems to him like a bad idea being there with him. Whatever possessed him to meet and talk to Mairon, to a complete stranger?  
Late, it’s too late by now, when Mairon speaks again: 

“And yet, there’s some truth in what you said”, Mairon begins, opening completely his spirit before  _his Morgoth_ , “Morgoth’s songs,  _your songs_ , to me are alive: they would be my friends in need. Funny how a stranger could be closer and heartfelt than people called friends around us. It sounds pathetic?” 

‘Encouraging, incisive, enveloping’ Melkor would say instead. Putting that into perspective, it’s like he has revealed his life through his songs, what he had in the past: all his thoughts, neurosis, obsessions, trips and mental masturbations has been a fundamental part of his song-writing process. He never asked to be understood, exactly like Mairon said, but knowing of being is simply an amazing and strengthening feeling. Even more so by him, who seems to share the whole world with him. Raising his gaze to meet his once again, Melkor whispers “No”. 

“It’s funny how, since I was young, I come to your music when I feel left behind or totally outside this time and space. Not judging, perhaps a bit angry, but...always there for me. In good times and in bad one. Mostly in bad, but still-” 

Mairon looks into his eyes as if he would like to be touched by his look; even if he’s going to be buried deep inside Melkor’s inner hell, he cannot choose but love him as he is. 

“That’s what Utumno is for me. I play metal because of you: it’s totally your fault…so if you don’t like my music blame yourself”, he smiles slightly. 

“You said it in the interview I saw about one month ago”, murmurs Melkor. 

“Oh, you saw it?” 

“Also, you said you have a message”, Melkor opens his hands, “I’m here” 

 “To put it mildly, it strains credibility”, Mairon chuckles, before saying openly what’s in his mind, “Well,”, he takes a breath, “Share a project with me”, he adds in one breath, without hiding his thrill. 

Melkor feels his stomach gripped by the same emptiness that has tortured him for three years but seemed, somehow, lightened during the last month: disappointment, an inexorable domino effect that led to more disillusion, simultaneously closing off passages of solution until nothing is left but frustration and depression. No one - except for his father and brother - knows it: Morgoth didn’t exist anymore, his past life is gone forever and he’s not ready to deal with that, all that; he barely managed with his situation alone, but to face it with someone else would be unbearable not less than embarrassing. 

“I’m listening”, nevertheless Melkor speaks with his deep voice. 

“A split album” 

“What you mean?”, rising one eyebrow inquisitively. 

“Well, I got this idea some months ago and truly I think it could work outstandingly!”, the blonde guy looks excited as he speaks, “It’s a kind of concept: a music album or Ep which includes tracks by two different artists or groups. The glue that holds the whole project is a common theme”. 

“Listen,”, Mairon explains, “your band, the mighty Utumno, and my band, Tol-in-Gaurhoth joined together for…let’s say ten tracks, five from each band, sharing the same theme but our different visions: evil and chaos”. 

“But, look, that’s not all”, the younger singer goes on, having a kind of silent aura by taking the steps necessary to command Melkor’s attention completely, “a ‘split gig’ or more than one - if you agree and when my other commitments allow: one guest and one host, of course Utumno as host and Tol-in-Gaurhoth as guest” 

“You’re ambitious”, Melkor says giving his idea a merit but what he really means is ‘I’m powerless’ referring to himself. 

“Undoubtedly”, Mairon says, “but this might be a great opportunity for you to start all over again” 

“It sounds like  _your_  opportunity to make it real in the world’s music for good”, says Melkor darkly, “using my name with all that this entails” 

“I mean, and let’s get honest”, Mairon says, “I’m completely responsible for my successes - and you know it: I’m skilled, talented and I deserve a lot, lot more and better than what I have now. Moreover, as things stand at present,”, he speaks with a dose of self-confidence that borders on offensive, “it’s a whole lot easier to be…sure about something if you’re the best in the room”. 

Melkor almost winces at the arrogance in his voice: that claim makes his feelings of pain change into resentment, perceiving the bitter taste of humiliation on his tongue and seeing red. All the worries fluctuating in his mind about himself and his condition turn into a vivid anger and Melkor simply can’t control the swing of emotions that fights deep within himself after hearing those words, suddenly and powerfully. Filled with a dark, mindless rage unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, he finds himself assailing Mairon in blind fury, wanting nothing different than to hit him right there. Or to fuck him mercilessly.

And Mairon finds himself pinned against the wall by a feral repulsion and Melkor’s strong hand around his neck. And yet, the man’s not impressing any kind of pressure to the fingers and he can breathe without hindrance. 

Melkor presses him with his body, freeing his neck and sliding one hand in his blonde hair, soft at the touch exactly like he expected it to be. He looks at him and the guy is almost too perfect to look at: trembling in his arms with a mix of stupor and lust, showing no fear at all, for Mairon has a slight smile on his face and his stunning coppery-amber eyes burns with inner fire.

Mairon is completely unprepared when he feels the opposite force that the taller man is embedding now: no more distance but an impulse of drawing near, pulling him to him, his breath brushing his lips in bursts of heat before pressing their lips together. And Melkor strongly yanks him and kisses him desperately, savaging his mouth with a wildness that makes the blonde man moan and quiver from head to toe. Ravaging his mouth and funneling all his dark desires within it, Melkor’s mouth dominates, demands: tongue plunging into him, exploring deep as he eases into him hungrily. 

Their kiss is not like two strangers kissing for the first time: the way their lips connects together so naturally, the mouths so warm and wanting, the caress of their tongues moving faster and harder. Mairon would even deepen the kiss, pulling him,  _his Morgoth_ , into his own swirling storm when, abruptly, Melkor lets him go and, gasping for air, grabs at his boots: in a second, he leaves Mairon alone there where he stands. 

With sound of the door slamming behind him while Melkor leaves the apartment, Mairon feels his head spinning dizzily for the speed with which everything happened: confused and greatly disappointed, he sits down on a chair to find a new balance, to calm down the storm inside him. 

He’s used to the effect of being brutally sincere and aware of his own capabilities: being mistaken for arrogant, presumptuous and opportunist by most of people; it happened often in his past, when many were confusing his ambition and self-assurance with a negative form of pragmatism, but Mairon knows it well: nothing gets accomplished unless one is ambitious, and the more ambitious one is, the more one can accomplish. If  _his Morgoth_  is like other humans outside there, that’s not a big loss, it’s no loss for him: he should be glad of it, giving it away before it’s too late. 

And still, it hurts. 

Convincing himself about the fact that he has no time for this and that, as he has no time to waste at all, he walks through his apartment to take his laptop from the bedroom and bring it to the living room.  
It’s 9 in the evening and he has like seventy-five exams to grade (for sure all wrong as they are mid-semester pop quizzes), some papers to check and a kitchen to clean before indulging in a couple hours’ sleep. 

And yet, Mairon closes his eyes searching for the smoky taste and the soft effect of Melkor’s lips on his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curious about Melkor´s way of singing? Just image a man who can scream like [Gaahl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKSK1qb44DA), sing smooth like [David Draiman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u9Dg-g7t2l4) and speak with a deep-bass-from the grave voice like Peter Steele, J-P Leppäluoto and Ville Valo (or even more deeper).  
> Mairon´s pose for the draw is inspired by [Kvitrafn](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/7c/0f/fe/7c0ffefcbadc43fae021895af209e8a6.jpg) photographed by Peter Beste


	5. ᚠ or 'sustenance'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it...I'm posting another chapter.
> 
> This story inspired [hikingofthenoldor](https://hikingofthenoldor.tumblr.com) to draw [Black metal!Sauron](https://hikingofthenoldor.tumblr.com/post/166185853010/to-cope-with-my-inktober-failure-today-i-opened) ready for a concert!! Enjoy her marvelous work *-* ! Thank you for your love! 
> 
> Thank you [Seth](https://set-h.tumblr.com) for this beautiful Carcharoth. Please, don't pass out on him!  
> 

 

> Darkness has called me to His side  
>  He has possessed me for ever  
>  And I can feel His shadow around me  
>  My Lord is coming to take me home 
> 
> **_Tol-in-Gaurhoth_ **

 

 

‘Strange’, thinks Mairon, walking up the seven flights of stairs towards his apartment, distinguishing clearly that slight smell of smoke.  
And then, reaching his flat, it suddenly seems not so weird. 

“Finally,”, a deep and smokey voice murmurs, discerning the familiar sound of heavy boots scuffing pavement. 

Mairon stops to eye him.  
Sitting against the wall next to his door, exactly in the middle of the hallway, under the “no smoking” sign with a lit cigarette in his right hand, Melkor is waiting for him. Some buds on the ground say that he has been there since a little while.  
Mairon can picture it, the letter of warning addressed to him from the building manager for having a guest smoking on the common landing. And still, he doesn’t care. 

Mentally exhausted by two days of heavy thoughts, Melkor has no strength left and no will to put up with Mairon’s ridiculous attractiveness: he snorts, leaning his head against the wall. The blonde man looks terribly hot in that old and faded Utumno t-shirt, with hair gathered in two long side braids and those heavy combat boots. Once again, he not even seems the same guy he met two days before. 

“Well,”, says Mairon approaching him, “in all honesty, I thought I’d never see you again”. 

“Here”, Melkor hands over a bag, “that should be enough, right?” 

“Enough for what?”, Mairon curiously bends over to have a look at the bag content. 

“For two dishes of your pasta” 

“Actually, you bought ingredients for ten abundant servings!” 

“Good, more for me” 

“But…uhm, yes, you forgot fennel” 

“Fennel?” 

 “No worries”, Mairon answers, “I’ve plenty of it. Is it your way to say sorry, I guess?” 

“Should I?”, Melkor says menacingly, “I don’t think so. But all this means that you’re mad at me” 

“It’s impressive if you really are concerned about it”, Mairon says, sitting next to him against the same wall, the grocery bag between his legs, “but you want me to believe that you actually care?” 

“Maybe I do”, Melkor takes a slow, relaxed drag, “after all, I came back” 

“Yeah,”, smiles Mairon, “only because I’m holding your beers hostage!” 

Melkor’s chuckle lightens the general mood. 

“Why are you back, then?” 

Melkor puts out the cigarette on the floor, “Can we get it?”, he asks rhetorically, ready to get up and go. 

“Not this fast”, Mairon stops him, placing the right hand on his arm with an iron grip, “you’re about to learn an important lesson right here, before entering again that door”, he states solemnly. Before sitting back against the wall, Melkor observes him some second in silence, almost incredulous but somehow captivated by his grimness. 

“Personally,”, Mairon speaks, “you can’t just take over my life and do as you please. Probably, you’ve have been allowed by people around you to do whatever you want…but not me. By all means, I’m not asking you for anything but just to be…serious. Therefore, if you decide to walk through that door once again, it has to be once and for all”.

The intensity of Melkor’s eyes almost cuts Mairon’s breath: it’s like he is trying to tell him something more; and more comes when Melkor leans toward him, tilting his head on the side, looking insistently at him, straight into the fiery coppery of his eyes. There’s plenty Melkor could say about that matter and perhaps that would be what Mairon expects: a whispered ‘yes’, a simple nod or a polite smile. But Melkor opts for something in his own style, a proof that shows how he’s taking things pretty seriously with him. He leans over and Mairon feels the breath on his skin, on his lips, before one hand slips around his neck and presses him deeper into the softness of his presence. And his lips brush him with the warmth tenderness of few small kisses. 

“Have you heard me?”, asks Mairon, his eyes move over him, soft and arousing as a touch, and then Melkor nods and grazes the lips against his chin, and breathes into his skin neck: “Can we get in?”, he asks for the second time, before kissing him again. The thrill lasts no more than a split second. All that Mairon feels is the too-firm kiss of Melkor’s lips. His mouth mashes his lips until it meets teeth. He bites back and chews his lips with a passion fast to explode, almost forgetting where they’re giving spectacle.  
Almost. 

Fumbling desperately to find the keys so they can get into the apartment and carry all that in another place, Mairon barely resists to moan in pleasure while Melkor kisses the back of his neck, pressing his strong body against him, giving a little taste of the massiveness of his shape. Eventually, pushing open the door, they stumble into the house, still kissing, slightly smiling under them at their awkward progress - along with the shopping bags - refusing to let go of each other lips. Once inside, Mairon registers the path to his bedroom and a little blindly drives Melkor there, for nothing can distract him from _his Morgoth_. They rip each other’s clothes while walking, leaving them behind on the floor without any thought, until they’re naked. And then, Mairon presses him onto the bed: he would drop him on it, if only he could. 

Mairon’s eyes and hands wander down along his body as if to explore, to know everything about him through his body: the fingers roam below the hollow of Melkor’s throat, across his perfectly muscled upper chest, tracing carefully the shape of the hammer tattooed under the left collarbone, following the path over the chest, down the ripped abdomen to his navel: there he aims the touch upward again, towards his left ringed nipple. Melkor makes sure he returns each and every single touch with one of his own, pleased to see coppery gold eyes turn hazy and lost at some point with uncontrollable desire. Warm hands cup Mairon’s face dragging him down at him, and hot breath washes over his mouth. ‘Oh, kiss me’, he thinks and Melkor covers his mouth gently, teases his lips apart, and caresses his tongue softly. But all his calm is only apparent before a sudden storm, and Mairon crushes his lips on Melkor’s: he bites at the lush lower lip, and then drags his mouth away, towards his neck.  A surge of savage lust shots through him, “ _Little wolf_ ”, Melkor whispers, his hand in his blonde hair, and the blonde man fastens his teeth on his skin, intensifying the grip, dominating him, in control and lust. 

Mairon reaches out, flicking a fingernail over the pierced erect nipple, and smiles at the gasp it provokes. He bends his head, set his teeth around the same point, and pulls back, allowing them to scrape over the sensitive flesh. He pulls again, this time taking with his teeth the whole steel ring and tugging at him deliciously. Melkor arches his back, his chest pushing against Mairon, the head pressing into the pillow under him: oh yes, that’s him, his essence, that’s his _little wolf_ , wild and electrifying. To the other nipple is given the same treatment, and Melkor groans from the deep of his throat. Quick bites rain over his chest and belly, and then down. 

It’s perfect. Girthy, lengthy, veiny and it has a nice curve to it. He swiftly dips down his head over to it with his mouth fully stretched wide open to greedily devour it into the back of his warm mouth. But Mairon only wraps his lips around the tip of his cock and gently sucks him until Melkor succumbs with an erotic moan. Then Mairon stops and moves his kiss on the side where the tattooed dragon tail circles his skin, to drive his shameless mouth towards his strong cheek button. 

A bit disappointed Melkor lets Mairon flip him over. Bites, he feels, more bites on his skin following the dragon shape meticulously, until he gets his cheeks: he sinks the teeth into his firm, plump flesh, leaving red marks all over his cheek’s ass. Melkor moans beneath him as he works his way across his back, giving him more love bites. 

Abruptly Mairon pulls away and the bed shifts under the changing in weight while reaching the lube bottle in the drawer of the night stand. Melkor moves impatiently to lay again on his back. The bed shifts again, and Mairon places himself between his legs, spreading them further apart, before easing himself down. 

‘Thick in the head’, Melkor thinks moaning softly as he fills him up, slowly pushing inside of him. But that slow movement doesn’t last so much: with a firm hand grip at Melkor’s hip, Mairon pushes in, all the way in, just in a breath. Melkor shivers in a mix of agony and pleasure at the exquisite pain as the entire cock stretches out him until he is fully buried inside of him: Mairon is holding him tight, and he can only enjoy it more darkly. 

They move as one; their bodies intertwined in a giant mosaic of ecstasy.  
Mairon gets him to wrap his legs around his lithe body, letting the head of the cock push against his softer spot with each thrust. He wraps the arms around his neck and cling to him like Melkor is there very thing he lives for. He increases the pace, kissing his neck and taking small nibbling bites every so often. 

Mentally and physically engaged, Melkor’s grip gets tighter around him, his body experiencing a _closeness_ never felt before. Nothing is meaningful except for the present of their sexual togetherness. This love making acts like a drug on him, or a fighting in which Mairon wants to own his soul.  
Mairon increases the pace again, letting Melkor’s body wrap around him, take hold of his cock, massage it and tease it in a way no one ever did before. He groans at the pleasure he is giving to him and resists the urge to go faster and complete their pleasure: he keeps the pace steady, biting his way down to his taut pierced nipple and sucking it. Melkor feels electricity running from his nipple to the head of his cock: the whole shaft twitches getting him closer to come. 

Seconds later, Mairon’s fingernails are digging into his back, and Melkor’s grip tightens like a vice with his legs around his hips. “ _Morgoth_ ”, Mairon calls his stage name as he starts to climax: he would like to hold it in longer but simply can’t. “ _Little wolf_ ”, Melkor replies, his body’s walls starting to squeeze stronger around the cock. Mairon swells up and releases the seed into him with one of the most explosive climax he has ever felt. Melkor keeps with his motion, loving that effect of Mairon pumping inside of him, finally climaxing between their skins and going limp too. 

 Mairon collapses on top of him holding him close, unwilling to pull out of him, resting the head onto his huge chest and keeping with that sucking around his juicy nipple for a while. Mairon loses track of time focusing into the pale blue of Melkor’s eyes. Forever with him, _his Morgoth_ , he swears inside of him. 

And Melkor looks at him like in awe, unaware of getting that look on his face like ‘how-the-hell-did-that-happen?’. Not a gangbang fucked him. Only that lithe young man called Mairon. 

“What?”, asks Mairon, puzzled face looking at his expression. 

“What…what?”, asks Melkor like he got him. 

“Why you’re looking like that?” 

“Like that…what?!”, Melkor covers up with a hint of shame, “Unholy Void! I just need nicotine”, getting off the bed and walking towards the living room, where his long leather coat is lying on the floor. 

Mairon can picture it, the calling from the building manager for having a naked man smoking on the balcony of his apartment in full view of the public. “Please, at least your jeans…”. 

“Get up,”, Melkor urges, collecting his clothes off the floor, “come outside with me and we speak. You’re not tired, are you?”. 

“Not tired but hungry”, Mairon replies, already dressed and ready to go. 

“Yeah me too”, Melkor lights the cigarettes and inhales, “anyway, nice tee”, he jokes and Mairon laughs softly stepping outside the balcony to take his place next to him. 

The view from the balcony is nothing special or exciting. Sometimes Mairon is stuck with an unwanted sneak peek of someone’s apartment through their balcony and window, a bland and boring brown plain fence or visions of neighbourhood dogs using their litter box. And yet Mairon feels that moment as special. It’s a matter of _perspective_ and, with Melkor on his side, everything’s perfect. 

“Well, Mairon Artano,”, Melkor begins to speak breaking Mairon’s inner thoughts, “what are you specializing in?” 

“A-ah,”, Mairon glances at him, “you looked into my mailbox, isn’t it? I could just call the cops on you, man”, he jokes. 

“We could play that game” 

“So, you give up at the end”, Mairon smirks in delight. 

“Testing my guesses”, Melkor replies, “that you’re a fucking doctor” 

“I’m ‘the cruel sadist professor’s assistant’ and almost PhD in Human Biology and Medical Genetics”, Mairon says proudly.  
If he has reason to be proud, Melkor doesn’t know it: “A fucking doctor”, he murmurs disgusted. 

“Not a doctor in the way you mean” 

“Right, right: you work and study like a slave and your professor gets glory and – more important - money every month. Yeah, you’ve to be really proud of the system” 

“Are we negotiating?”, asks Mairon, ready to seize the moment, “are you offering me a job?” 

“Ambitious, little wolf”, comments Melkor.

“Knowing my potential”, confirms Mairon, “it’s normal being a little bit pretentious: I’m young, unstoppable and completely unafraid of anything or anyone. And you know what? I’m exactly like you when you were my age. Those are qualities that take you a long way like you did. You created some of the best music in the world, still having global impact, with no record company executives there: you did it _alone_ ”.

Now.  
Melkor might walk naked in a stranger’s house feeling perfectly comfortable but there’s a level of familiarity - to not say deep confidence - people has to reach before saying certain things, normally considered personal or private. Even more with things that make you feel exposed or vulnerable. And for sure they’re not at that point. Moreover, Melkor doesn’t know if he can trust him: after all, what he knows about that guy? Notions, rudiments, although he has just been fucked by him.  
Well, if he has to bet about himself and his own future, he’s going to challenge the whole world just the way he has always done: like an eternal burning flame. 

“Talking about that,”, Melkor pauses to take a deep drag and hold it in slightly, and then exhales, “it’s three years I don’t hear music”. Directly, clearly and concisely he states, in somewhat less dramatic style. 

“Not that strange with your work”, Mairon starts to explain, “if you’ve lost sense of rhythm, it may be caused by some considerable effects on the auditory system and- ” 

“Wait wait, no,”, Melkor interrupts him, “I don’t hear music. I hear noises and words, as you can see, but no music at all”. 

Mairon puts the eyeglasses right on the nose.  
The man looks absolute serious and he knows that Melkor is not drunk. “You mean in a very real sense?”, frowning his forehead.  
Melkor nods with a grunt of approval: “I know it doesn’t make any sense but…It was true until one month ago, when I heard your voice singing. It was just a brief moment but _I heard you_ _calling me_ after three years of silence!”. 

If Mairon initially thought that all that was a little weird - the way they met, fought, met again and made love -, now everything quickly evolves getting weirder and weirder. “Did you go to see a doctor?”. 

“One?”, Melkor cynically asks, “Dozen with every sort of specialisation. All I thought and done for the last two years is being checked in all the possible ways. So…going back to your project…Thanks for the offer: it’s tempting but first I need to handle this little problem on my own”. 

“Let me understand,”, Mairon crosses his arms, “for a little impediment you screwed everything up? Your music and your entire life?” 

“Little impediment?”, Melkor catches himself starting feeling defensive and angry, “It's an issue, not an impediment!”, he adds incredulously. 

“Do you have any medical records?” 

“I’ve so many medical reports that I’ve built a tower with them in the middle of my living room”, he takes the last drag on the cigarette and then puts it out in the mug full of water used like ashtray, “one day of these I just want to get drunk in a very bad way and burn it to the ground” 

“Fortunately, you didn’t yet so I can give them a check: I'd like to see all your medical records”. 

“You can’t help me!”, Melkor growls angrily at him, “Open your eyes: no one can!”. 

“I want to see all those fucking reports!”, Mairon shouts back at him.  
Melkor can pick up in the tone of his voice an indication of anger and it’s obvious that he’s getting angry too, but Mairon inhales deeply and exhale slowly, standing calm and collected before him once again. “Can you, please, do it for me?”, he adds almost seraphically. 

“Yes”, a little dazed of his sudden change and lowering his tone of voice, “Still I don’t see how you could make this any better. Moreover, you’re not a doctor, right? In your words…”. 

“Give me some time and…”, Mairon half smiles, “a little impediment won’t stop us, you can bet on it”. 

And so Mairon looks at him. He doesn’t regret his harsh words, his subtle violence, for he hopes to shake him out of his stillness. He smiles and offers a polite “Is everything okay?”, while reaching over and touching his hand lightly. 

“Can't believe I'm saying it, but…”, holding tight his hand with a new self-confidence, his fingers interlocking with Mairon’s, “okay, kid, you've almost convinced me. I got nothing else to lose: you have all my life time”. 

“And how about one abundant serving of vegetarian pasta dish ready in forty minutes?”, Mairon steps forward to stand closer and lean against him, “If I get help with vegetables even twenty!”, he smiles.

Melkor pulls Mairon wrapping his arms around him and presses down relentlessly, sucking, and licking, forcing him mouth open: “Let’s fuck all night long”. 

He guides Mairon walking with him backward into the kitchen, one hand is tangled in his blonde, soft hair as they move together. The other hand is holding Mairon’s face against his as he kisses him fiercely, sliding his tongue over him, as if he is angry; and each time his lips leave him even just for half a second, Mairon feels lost. And then they walk down the hallway towards his bedroom once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carcharoth is physically inspired by the huge (and hot) [Johan Hegg](http://www.metalsucks.net/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/johan-hegg-podcast-banner.jpg)
> 
> Curious about Mairon's voice? [Kristoffer Rygg's voice works perfectly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=onFnt7JXMjQ) . Check this song [for his plain voice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OIfmD7lz99w).

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading❣


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